Resurrection, Part I, Death of an Agent
by Serialgal
Summary: Part one of a three one-shot series. In Part I, Charlie deals with Don's death; in Part II, Don deals with Charlie's death. Part III connects the two seemingly unrelated stories.


Resurrection Part I - Death of an Agent

_A/N: This is a series of three short stories, each one-shot complete in itself, that deals with how each brother would react to the death of the other. In __Part I, Death of an Agent__, Charlie deals with Don's death, from Charlie's POV, and in __Part II, Death of a Mathematician__, Don deals with Charlie's death, told from Don's POV. __Part III, Resurrection__, pulls the two seemingly unrelated stories together. The stories take place after the end of Season 4, and make some AU conjectures on Charlie's return to consulting. I plan to post these one a day until complete. I think that even those of you who do not like character deaths will appreciate the ending - Part III._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, although I do claim rights to original story concepts. All characters are fictional; any resemblance to real people, living or dead; is coincidental._

**Resurrection - **_a Numb3rs Series_

**Part I - Death of an Agent**

Charlie stood, watching them lower the casket into the ground, each element of the day standing out in stark relief. The sunlight, the mottled colors of earth in the hole, the grass stippled with dry strands, victims of the L.A. heat. A soft wind caressed his face as he stared unblinking behind dark glasses, his face set like stone, his body just as rigid, feet apart slightly, arms down, hands clasped tightly in front of him, as if he were preparing to raise them in prayer. Incantations floated around him in the air, emanating from the rabbi, but the words held no meaning for him. His soul was as impervious to prayer as his body was to the wind – solid, earthbound, as dead and unmoving as rock.

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_Several days earlier…_

Charlie's first case after getting his security clearance back resulted from a tip-off on possible arms smuggling. The FBI was examining a small group of men who were reported to be involved, or possibly even running the ring – they had names of the men and they knew their whereabouts, and the FBI was staking out the building in the Culver City area out of which they supposedly operated. What they didn't have was proof – the tip-off was a rumor, and wasn't enough to generate a search warrant. The L.A. office had asked Charlie to run some searches associated with the movements of the men they had observed during their surveillance.

On the heels of that case had come another – a more mundane case of electronic theft, but it had the potential to become huge. The more Charlie dug into it, the more money he found to be involved. Giddy with relief at finally being back, he tackled both tasks with zeal excessive even for him. He was hard at work on his laptop at the dining room table, when he heard the front door open and glanced behind him to see his brother. "Hey," he called out. "In here."

He heard Don's footsteps behind him; felt the warm heavy pressure as his brother's strong hand squeezed his shoulder. "It's good to have you back," said Don, softly, and Charlie turned to see the soft smile on his brother's face, the eyes crinkling at the corners. Charlie could see the relief in Don's face also – not because he'd felt the loss of a consultant for the past several weeks – but because he'd felt the loss of a brother. Even in the short span of a few months, they'd begun to drift apart again, in spite of themselves. Neither of them liked it, but their disagreement over the reason for Charlie's departure had created some tension in a still-developing relationship, that had made it hard to talk things through.

The fact that they were working together again, on the same side again, lightened the atmosphere considerably. Charlie resolved that now that the burden created by his lack of clearance was lifted, he would work on developing their relationship outside of the workplace. If there was ever a situation again where they couldn't work together, he was determined that they would have a baseline relationship independent of work – something that could withstand the fact that they weren't connected by a case. They weren't there yet, but they would get there, if it were up to him. That, of course, would be dependent on Don feeling the same way, but judging from the look on his brother's face at the moment, he did.

He grinned up at Don, feeling his heart fill with hope at a new beginning. This time would be different – this time they would really connect, really finally achieve that close relationship that he'd wanted for so long, and that he hoped and believed that Don wanted, also. "It's good to be back," he said. The moment was a little too emotional for both of them, and as Don withdrew his hand, Charlie cleared his throat, straightened, and indicated his computer screen. "I'm running the algorithms to try to pick out indicators that your suspected arms smugglers are truly involved," he said. "Travel patterns, buying patterns, frequented locations, as best we know, looking for any connection to firearms. So far, nothing."

Don nodded. "I have the surveillance update with me. They were out and about some today – maybe that data will help."

Charlie nodded, and glanced back up at him. "Can you stay for dinner? I'm not sure what we have in the house – Dad is out with clients tonight, but I'm sure I could rustle something up."

"Yeah, well, that's why I stopped," said Don. "I wanted to see if you'd like to go out and get a bite somewhere."

The simple invitation nearly choked him up. Charlie couldn't remember the last time they'd gone out to eat somewhere, just the two of them, and he tried not to look as ridiculously pleased as he felt. "Yeah, sure. Leave your report – I'll tackle it after dinner."

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Don surveyed the menu in front of him. "So, how does it feel to be consulting again?"

"Great," replied Charlie with quiet enthusiasm. "I really missed it." Don flashed him a quick smile over the top of the menu, but it looked just a bit strained, and Charlie frowned. "What?"

Don sighed. "I don't know – don't get me wrong, it's great to have you back – I missed working together. It's just – do you remember what I said to you after the Parker case? That maybe you should be doing other things – bigger –," he searched for a word, "math – things. Maybe we should have left it that way."

Charlie smiled and shook his head, skepticism in his face. "And is that what you really want?"

Don grinned back, sheepishly. "Actually, no. I was just trying to take the high road."

Charlie's smile broadened. "Me neither. And anyway, I think I can do both. My projects in the academic world will move more slowly, but it doesn't mean I have to give them up." The smile faded a little, and was replaced by something earnest, more serious. "But even if I did have to give it up to consult for you, it's worth it, as far as I'm concerned." The look in his brother's eyes at the statement made Charlie sure of that, even if he weren't already so.

They ordered, and when the waitress left, Don gazed at him pensively. "So, knowing what you know now, how much you missed consulting, would you do it again?"

"You mean, send the email."

"Yeah. Or maybe more to the point, what if you hadn't been able to get your clearance back? Would you do it again, if you couldn't get your clearance back, after being without it?"

Charlie stared at his plate. "I don't know. The way it turned out, I would. I mean, I did get my clearance back. But if I couldn't…." He lifted his eyes to meet Don's. "In retrospect, I think I would have tried harder to get the information to them some other way first, some way sanctioned by the government. I kind of went with my gut – acted emotionally. Maybe there would have been another way to do it."

The corner of Don's mouth lifted, wryly. "Getting the U.S. government to move on something like that? You would have been waiting a long time."

Charlie looked rueful. "I guess that's what I figured, too. And how many people would have starved to death during that time?" He sidestepped Don's original question, and turned it back at him. "If it had been you, what would you have done?"

"I think you know the answer to that. I have enough to do here without trying to solve world hunger. Not that what you did was wrong for you, I just don't think it would have been right for me. For me, there's a trade-off – if I lost my clearance, I would have been trading the chance to help Americans over a period of several years, for the opportunity to save lives of people in another country, once."

Charlie was silent for a moment. He'd never thought of it that way, but the same logic could be applied to him. If he'd never regained his clearance, and as a result some murder cases went unsolved, or weren't solved quickly enough and more murders were the outcome, would he have sacrificed American lives by his action? He'd known Don hadn't approved of his decision, but he didn't know why, exactly. He did now. The knowledge hurt –he'd always craved approval and respect from his older brother, and in this case, he'd hoped that even if Don didn't agree with what he'd done, he'd at least think of it as nobly driven, and would have been proud of Charlie for sticking up for his principles. That, apparently, was not the case. Don's reply had been diplomatic, but it left no doubt where he stood on the issue, and that he had most definitely disapproved of what Charlie had done. In fact, more than likely, the whole thing had embarrassed him. He looked at Don. "You were ashamed of me, weren't you?"

His words were quiet, and Don frowned, looking as if he hadn't heard him, but the waitress chose that moment to arrive with their food, and he didn't get a chance to ask Charlie to repeat it. Even when the waitress left however, he didn't respond, and Charlie didn't ask the question again.

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Two days later, Charlie sat in the second floor storage room of a vacant storefront in Culver City, across the street from the building that the suspects were renting, frowning over his laptop while Colby and David kept watch from the window. Charlie had stopped by to view the location, hoping it would spur some ideas. It reminded him of another stakeout, not too long ago, his first, which he'd found extremely tedious. He was glad to have something to work on, but even if he hadn't he would have been glad to be there. Glad to be back, working with his brother, glad the whole clearance thing was no longer an issue. In spite of the uncomfortable feeling he'd gotten during their dinner that his brother had been ashamed of him, or at least of his impulsive decision-making, it was behind them now. Don had made it clear that he wanted to move on. He already knew that his brother was glad to have him back, and that was enough - he would make it up to Don; make him proud of him again. A few more cases and the email debacle would be only a memory.

Colby's phone rang, and the agent stepped back out of view of the window, flipped it open, and answered, putting it on speaker. "Yeah, Don, you're on speaker."

Don's voice floated out, disembodied and tinny. "Guys, we got a break. Charlie, one of the three places you told us to check out, Patterson Distribution, had a few boxes of munitions tucked away in the storeroom. It was enough for the judge to grant us a warrant – we're going in. We're just a few minutes out now. Colby and David, I need you to meet us in the lot behind your surveillance site and get some tactical gear. Charlie, I'm gonna send up an LAPD officer to sit with you. This is moving too fast for you to get out of there, so I want you to sit tight and stay away from the windows, okay?"

"Okay." David and Colby were up and moving, and Charlie swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"All right, David, Colby, we're pulling into the lot now. We've already got the ends of the street blocked off. Charlie, just stay there; someone will be up in a minute."

Charlie could feel his heart start to pound. He hated this – hated this part of Don's job. It was bad enough to know that his brother did it – went into situations where gunfire could be exchanged. It was worse to be there when it went down. He wanted to tell him to be careful, but Don had already signed off.

David gave Charlie a brisk nod as he strode out the door. "This'll be over in a few minutes, Charlie. Just stay where you are until LAPD gets up here, okay?"

Charlie nodded, his hands clenched in his lap. Footsteps receded down the stairs, and a few moments later, the LAPD officer called up the stairwell. "Dr. Eppes? Why don't you come down here to the first floor? If we need to get out the back, it will be faster."

Charlie rose and closed his laptop, but as the sound of vehicles and the sharp short blare of a siren sounded in the street below, he couldn't resist a quick peek out of the second floor window. Vehicles had pulled up, including Don's SUV, and FBI and SWAT personnel were maneuvering into position behind them, keeping the vehicles between them and the brick face of the building across the street. Don was wearing his flak jacket, Charlie noted with relief, and clutching his computer bag, he turned and went downstairs.

The LAPD officer had positioned himself so that he could see out of the first floor storefront window without exposing himself too much, and Charlie tucked in behind him, but enough to the side so that he could look around him. He could see Don clearly through the plate glass; his brother was directing the teams with practiced efficiency, and Charlie simply watched him in admiration for a moment. Don was in his element, strong, confident, leadership written in every movement, as his team and the SWAT personnel flowed around vehicles and toward the door. A group of men with shields took down the door, and another group moved in smoothly, guns extended, while others took positions to the side. Don was staying put behind his vehicle, much to Charlie's satisfaction, although he fretted that Don exposed himself from time to time, as he moved back and forth behind the vehicle, assessing the situation, communicating with those inside.

Suddenly, shots rang out, and Charlie ducked slightly, instinctively, his heart leaping in his chest. The agents outside scurried for cover and began firing back at their assailants in the windows, and Charlie's eyes immediately went to Don. His brother had crouched behind the SUV and was speaking into a radio, his expression tense. The shots stopped, and moments later, agents appeared at the door ushering out handcuffed suspects, and the group outside appeared to relax. The LAPD officer next to him, believing the raid to be over, moved forward to the window and Charlie moved too, toward the storefront door next to it.

As he reached the door, he picked up Don again through the glass; then suddenly there was a shout, and the motion of people to his right, up the street. Another suspect had apparently come from the side of the building out of an alley, was trying to escape. Charlie could see a man dart through the line of vehicles, with an agent on his tail. He saw Don whirl and watched his arm come up, pointing in the man's direction, and then there were more shots. He knew the moment that Don was hit.

Don staggered and fell into the SUV, leaning heavily against it, and Charlie stared in horror; then fumbled with the bolt frantically, twisting it, pushing through the door. His eyes were riveted on Don, and he dropped his laptop and sprinted full out towards him, ignoring the yell of the officer behind him, ignoring the continuing shots, dashing across the street as Don slid down the side of the vehicle. Charlie fell onto his knees next to him just as Don began to list sideways, and he slumped into Charlie's arms, his mouth open slightly, his face blank with shock, white with pain. A bullet whizzed past Charlie's ear and buried itself in the side of the SUV, but he ignored it.

"Don?" Charlie clasped him in a panic, his brother's strong shoulder against his chest. At first he couldn't see the wound, but then he saw blood staining his brother's armpit, right next to the armhole of the vest. He pulled the arm outward gently, his hands trembling, his heart lurching painfully as he saw the hole in the side of his brother's chest, the area around it saturated with blood. "Oh, my God," he said shakily, and then screamed, "We need an ambulance! Somebody get an ambulance!" The words came out with desperation, ugly, ragged with fear, amplified by the concrete canyon of the street. The shots had stopped, and his voice rang in the ensuing quiet.

He stared down at his brother's face, horrified. "Don? Hang in there, okay? Help's coming." His voice sounded unsteady, as terrified as he felt. _'Please let him be okay, please let him be okay…'_

"Charlie." Don's voice was weak, strained, but his eyes had shifted to Charlie's face.

"Where does it hurt?" Feet were pounding around them now, and there were shouts further up the street, as someone directed an ambulance forward.

"Charlie – you know – th'other night – not ashamed – of you." The words were half-whispered, short bursts of air, and Don inhaled painfully after the short string of words.

"No," whispered Charlie, holding him tightly, tears welling in his eyes.

Don ignored the single word, spoken as a plea. "Always – proud – of you. Love you. Tell Dad – too." He took in a shuddering breath; his eyes starting to lose focus, but still trained on Charlie's face.

"I love you, too," Charlie managed to gasp back. "But it's going to be okay, Don." Tears were coursing down his face in earnest now, his voice thick with grief. He looked up wildly for the medics, and saw them running toward them, beyond Colby and David's stunned faces. He hadn't even been aware that the agents had squatted next to them. He clutched Don tightly, and stared back into the fading eyes, willing life into him. "You can't go. Please – hang on Donnie, please. Please." The last word came out as a sob, as Don's eyes slowly closed.

The medics were there, pushing their way in, and one laid a hand on Don's neck. "I don't have a pulse." His voice was short, terse.

"Please, help him," begged Charlie, as the medics lifted Don from his arms, and swiftly laid him on a gurney. They jerked a strap around Don's body to hold him, and took off at a run for the ambulance, one of them situating an oxygen mask over Don's face as they pushed the gurney. Charlie scrambled to his feet, frantically, heading after them, but one of the medics called back. "There's no room - we're taking him to Cedars – meet us there!"

Charlie's steps faltered, and for a moment he just stood there, lost. He felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see Colby, his mouth set in a grim line, but his eyes soft with sympathy. "Charlie, give David your keys. He'll take your car. You can come with me." Charlie looked at him, at David, and at Liz, who had joined them – all gathered around him, all of them with somber faces, their eyes telling him what he didn't want to believe.

The ride to Cedars-Sinai was the longest one in his life. He sat hunched miserably in the passenger seat, his heart filled with pain, his mind uttering a passionate plea over and over, '_Please let him live, please let him live, please let him live…_' In his heart, he knew better, his brother had died in his arms, but his mind refused to acknowledge it. '_Maybe they revived him in the ambulance,_' he kept telling himself. '_Maybe when I get there he'll be in surgery…_' Colby sat silently behind the wheel, his face lined with sadness.

He dropped him off at the entrance, and Charlie charged inside without a word. The ambulance had beaten them there; it sat with doors open, but Don's gurney was nowhere in sight, inside or out. He ran past a limping teenager to the receptionist behind a window. "Don Eppes – I need to know where they took him."

She looked at him, assessing the desperation, the agonized expression. "They just brought him in a few minutes ago; if you'll just wait over there, I'll call you."

He stared at her, then turned away, stupid with shock, toward the chairs, and sank into one of them, where he sat for several minutes, when suddenly his brain kicked into gear, panic driving him back onto his feet. He strode forward, pushed through the doors to the ER bays, ignoring the receptionist's protests, and started down the hall, just as a doctor and an intern stepped out of a room, stripping off gloves. "Don Eppes," Charlie said to them, his voice shaking. "Do you know which room he's in?"

The two men looked at each other, and then the doctor stepped forward. "Who are you?"

"Charlie Eppes. I'm his brother. I was at the scene when he was shot." The doctor glanced again at the intern; then he put a gentle hand on Charlie's arm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Eppes. He was dead on arrival. There was nothing we could do." The words were uttered with sympathy, but were delivered smoothly. This was just another victim, the man's tone said, regrettable, but they saw it all the time…

Charlie stared back at him, and shook his head slowly. "No," he whispered.

"We'll have the medical examiner look at him, but we took a quick scan, and we saw that the bullet lodged in the area of his heart. He had no pulse from the moment he left he scene. The medics applied artificial respirations, but there really was no hope from the beginning." He paused, taking in the grief-stricken face before him, and his tone became gentle. "Would you like to see him?"

Charlie looked at him, blankly; then nodded. His throat had restricted, become incapable of speech. The intern spoke quietly. "That's not procedure."

The doctor looked at him with disapproval, as he guided Charlie toward the door. "No, it's not. We'll talk about it later."

Charlie followed the man into the room, and the doctor spoke to the personnel inside. "Can you give us a minute? Thank you." The hospital staff members gave them a look, but filed out silently, and the doctor left behind them, pausing at the door. "I'll be out in the hall."

Charlie was already staring at the figure on the gurney, and he stood still for a moment, pain and shock and grief all cascading through him, like a physical sensation in both his mind and body. He moved slowly forward, still not believing – it couldn't be true; Don was indestructible, always so strong, so confident. He looked simply as though he was sleeping, and although he had been stripped and was uncovered from the waist up, the wound wasn't apparent. Charlie could see blood in his armpit, but the bullet hole wasn't visible, hidden by Don's upper arm. His chest looked perfectly normal; it seemed inconceivable that there was bullet inside of it. It wasn't fair – he'd been wearing a vest. If the bullet had struck one inch down, or if Don hadn't raised his arm, the bullet would be lodged elsewhere – somewhere more harmless. Not in his heart.

Don had always had a solid chest, and Charlie reached out tentatively, his fingertips touching his brother's sternum, over his heart. There was nothing, the strong heart had been stilled, the body already cooling, and the full realization hit Charlie like a blow. A ragged sob burst from him, and he bent slightly at the waist from the agony that knifed through him - unbearable, mind-bending grief, filling him until he couldn't breathe, wrenching sob after sob from him, each one more painful than the last.

He found himself leaning against the gurney for support, head bowed over Don's body, the tears dripping on the gurney rail, the sheets, Don's arm. "You can't be gone," he whispered, to the lifeless form. "What will I do without you? Please don't leave me, please…God…"

He was so submerged in pain he didn't hear the door open several minutes later, and the doctor's voice sounded as though it was coming from a distance. "Mr. Eppes, I'm going to ask you to leave him for a while now, so the medical examiner can look at him." The words were followed by a gentle hand on his arm, and Charlie reluctantly let the man lead him out of the room. He didn't want to go; he didn't want time to pass. Each moment took him farther away from the time, now just moments ago; the time when his brother was alive and confident, and talking to him on the cell phone.

He staggered back out into the waiting area to find Colby, David, and Liz. He knew his face was wet, his eyes were swollen, his expression dumb with grief, but he didn't care. He couldn't think, couldn't handle the pain, and he sat in one of the chairs, on legs that wouldn't hold him anymore. This was too hard – how was he going to live through this? It hurt so much, so much…

He was vaguely aware of the others. Liz was crying softly, not making any vocal sounds, but he could hear her sniffle from time to time. He could see David and Colby out of his peripheral vision as he stared, trancelike, at the floor. David ran a hand over his dark face, and looked heavenward, the moisture from tears glinting on his cheeks, and Colby stood miserably to one side, his shoulders slumped; eyes filled with the look of someone who had seen too many deaths in his lifetime, too many friends pass away.

The automatic doors slid open, and Charlie looked up to see Alan hurrying through them, his steps slowing as he saw Charlie's drooping form, the hopelessness in his eyes, the tears on his cheeks. Realization, horrible realization dawned on Alan's face, and Charlie felt the knife in his heart twist even deeper, as he saw his father's agony. "Oh, God," said Alan, as Charlie rose on unsteady feet and they moved to each other. His father's voice shook. "God, no." They clasped each other like drowning men, fused together by pain.

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Charlie could hear the quiet voices at the funeral home, as he drifted through the doorway towards an adjoining room. The viewing ordeal was new to him; at least in his capacity as a close family member. He'd gone to calling hours to offer sympathy, but had never been on the receiving end - he hadn't gone to his mother's viewing; he'd barely made it to her funeral. He didn't want to be here now, but he knew his behavior when his mother had died had upset Don, and he was determined to do it correctly in this case, to do the right thing, to make Donnie proud. The thought brought a choked huff of air from him, a pained twist of the lips. He'd spent his whole life trying to get his brother's approval, to get close to him, and now that he was gone, he was still trying. Even though Don had told him he was proud of him with his dying breath, speaking the words like an absolution, Charlie still felt the need for that approval. What would happen when the funeral was over, he wondered, numbly. When Don was no longer with them, even in body? What would he do, now that his brother wasn't there to impress, to look up to; to idolize? His reason for living had vanished. He felt rudderless, adrift.

He could hear his father's voice coming from the next room, and he stopped at the doorway. "I'm worried about Charlie," Alan was saying. "He doesn't handle these things well – first his mother, now Donnie -," the voice trailed off for a moment, choked with tears. "I'm getting up there, and I'll be gone next – it doesn't seem right that the one of us that has the hardest time dealing with all of this will be the one who someday will be left alone-,"

He heard his aunt's soothing voice, but he lost her reply as he turned and moved back into the main room, away from the doorway. People were milling about the funeral home, talking quietly; they had four large rooms at their disposal, and they were all full of people. His brother had been admired, respected, a hero in every sense of the word. As painful as it was for him to be here, Charlie was glad he'd come – it was good to see this, to see what Don had meant to others. He felt a soft squeeze of his shoulder and turned to see Robin next to him, her eyes red-rimmed, but she gave him a small smile. Her presence reminded Charlie of how unfair it all was; Don and Robin had been finally getting somewhere; his brother's life had finally been clicking into place. Now he'd never be married, never have children…

He hugged her, they exchanged some words of mutual support and sympathy, and he moved away.

Several hours later, he sat there, alone. Amita had just gone; his father was in the other room speaking with the funeral director. Charlie rose to his feet and approached the casket. The funeral was the next morning. After tonight, he would never see his brother's face again. He looked at it, handsome, proud, the profile strong, and fresh tears began again. "Good-bye, Donnie," he murmured, his voice and his heart breaking, "I'll always love you, and I'll try to make you proud."

That night, like each night since the shooting, he lay curled in a ball on the bed in Don's old room, and cried himself to sleep.

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The rabbi was finished with his prayers and incantations, and Charlie watched, unmoving, as they lowered the casket into the ground. He still had his hands clasped in front of him, and he felt Amita's hand snake through one of his arms, lending soft support. The breeze stiffened, and a cloud passed over the sun, and then, just as the coffin was set in place, there was the sound of rifle fire in salute, and the sun flashed out again.

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The ride on the elevator was new pain. It seemed so familiar, so normal. Less than a week ago, he'd ridden the same elevator to the same bullpen, and had walked in to find Don at his desk. Today there was no Don, he thought, although the desk looked the same. No one had removed his things yet, and Charlie supposed they might ask him to do it. That wasn't what he was here for, however.

He stepped into the conference room, and the agents' heads came up in surprise. Wright was there, directing until they found a replacement for Don – as if such a thing were possible. Liz was there, and Colby and David – so familiar, so normal, and so wrong, without his brother's presence. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Colby looked at him, concern in his blue-green eyes. "Charlie, what are you doing here?"

Charlie sat down and opened his briefcase. There was no question; this would be the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. "I'm here for the meeting on the electronic theft case," he said, his voice sounding strangely composed, yet resonating with the pain, still fresh. He was determined to do this, in spite of what it cost him, and every perp he helped to arrest, every murder he prevented, every citizen he helped the team protect, would be for Don.

Wright shook his head. "Charlie, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," said Charlie, quietly but firmly. "Don would have wanted it this way." He opened his file, and began going through the numbers, praying they would dull the pain, hoping that Don saw somehow, from wherever he was, and approved.

That night, he went into his own bedroom, and sat on the edge of his bed. It was late, he was exhausted, and he knew he had to start sleeping in his own bed sooner or later. He somehow felt a connection to Don, however, when he was in his brother's old room, a connection that he wasn't ready to give up, as yet. He staggered down the darkened hallway in a fog, and curled up on Donnie's old bed, clutching a shirt that Don had worn only a week ago, as the tears, his constant companions, spilled out onto the pillow.

It still hurt as badly as it had when it first happened, worse, in fact, as the finality of it had set in. It left a hole in Charlie's heart, a horrible ache that was almost too much to be tolerated. He could feel a pull, a blackness that beckoned him. He could end it all, end the pain – it was as simple as the bottle of prescription sleeping pills that he'd been given, along with the anti-anxiety medicine that had been prescribed to his father. There were times when he felt so strongly that he couldn't go on without Don, without ever seeing him again, that the thought of suicide was a very real possibility. Each time, though, one thought pulled him back – the urge, indelibly inscribed on his very soul since he was small, the desire to gain Don's respect. He couldn't take his life – Don wouldn't approve. His love for his brother was both his reason to live, and the reason for his wish to die. It was the albatross around his neck, his salvation, and his personal hell. Somehow, he would have to find a way to carry on, without him.

He closed his eyes, lying there as the tears seeped into the pillow, and buried his face in Don's shirt, trying to inhale his brother's strength, along with his fading scent.

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End Part I


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